Page 49 of Better When Shared (Kristin Lance Anthologies #2)

Enzo

Cadiz, Spain

Gemma, who was recovering from her hangover, spent the day lounging on our balcony with a book, and Brian disappeared after one more scathing, judgmental glare. As if he hadn’t been part of the whole kidnapping fiasco. Unsettled, I meandered around the ship, tried some of the food, took advantage of the free alcohol, but nothing would chase away my restlessness.

I had to face facts: Brian may be a giant dork, but I valued his opinion. He’d never been this upset with me, not even when we’d tried to convince him to buy a keg for our party when he was 21 and we were 18. Brian was steady, quiet, and always there when I needed him, even after Jake had left Philadelphia to travel the world on his grand adventure.

That he could disappear on a small luxury cruise liner sat heavily with me. And when he returned to our room late at night, I pretended not to watch him as he got ready for bed and settled down on the sectional, perpendicular to me. If I moved my feet a little, we’d be touching, but that would be a weird as hell thing to do. So I curled my knees in closer and let out a fake snore.

I wasn’t sure when I fell asleep, but I woke to Gemma hunched over her phone, fingers flying across the screen. She was dressed in a crisp white blouse and tailored navy trousers, her legs folded under her in the big armchair across from the sectional, looking every inch the CEO. Brian was nowhere to be seen.

I stood and stretched, peeking over her shoulder along the way.

"Is that a flight booking website?”

I muttered, reading the screen over her shoulder.

She didn't even look up, just continued scrolling through departure times with the focus of a woman on a mission.

"As soon as we got near the Spanish coast, I had better reception. There's a 2:15 flight to Barcelona, and from there I can get to Heathrow. I can catch a taxi to the airport, be back in Bath by evening."

The casual way she said it—like abandoning a luxury cruise was another item on her to-do list—made panic claw at my chest. This whole rescue mission would be for nothing if she bailed on day two. Worse, Brian would hold this over my head forever. I had to prove him wrong, to show him that bringing her had been the right choice.

I moved to sit on the coffee table in front of her, close enough to see the determined set of her jaw, the way her green eyes reflected the phone screen's glow. She smelled like expensive perfume and the lavender soap from the suite's bathroom, clean and crisp and completely at odds with the chaos of yesterday.

"Come on,"

I said, gesturing toward the windows where the Spanish coastline spread out like a postcard.

"Look at that view and tell me you want to go back to spreadsheets and quarterly earnings calls."

The port of Cadiz stretched below us, all terracotta roofs and palm trees swaying in the Mediterranean breeze. The water was so blue it looked fake, and I could see other passengers streaming down the gangway toward the beaches, their laughter carrying on the warm air.

Gemma looked up, her gaze following mine to the windows. For a moment, something flickered across her face—longing, maybe, or regret. Like she was seeing something she wanted but couldn't quite let herself have.

"I have responsibilities,"

she said, but her voice lacked conviction.

"The hotel group doesn't run itself, and with Tristan on leave, I can't disappear for three weeks."

"But that’s what you’d already planned, with Jake. This is your cruise!”

“When it was my honeymoon, it was sensible. But now, it’ll make me look… I don’t know, like a weak, abandoned woman, wallowing after a man left her.”

“Or maybe you’ll look like a strong, sexy woman, grabbing life’s opportunities, even when things go to shit. When's the last time you took a real vacation?"

I tilted my head, studying her profile. The morning light caught the sharp angles of her cheekbones, the elegant line of her neck.

"And I don't mean working vacations where you spend half the time on conference calls."

She was quiet for a long moment, her thumb hovering over the booking button.

"That's not the point."

"Isn't it, though?"

I pushed off from the window, moving closer until I could see the tiny lines of stress around her eyes.

"Gemma, you're allowed to fall apart a little. You're allowed to do something fucking impractical. No one will judge you for having emotions."

The words hit their mark. I watched her shoulders tense, watched her finger tighten on the phone. But she didn't press the button.

"Look,"

I said, softening my voice to something approaching gentle.

"Stay for one day. Just one. Hit the beach, drink something with an umbrella in it, let someone else make the decisions for a few hours."

I nodded toward the coastline.

"You deserve at least that much before you go back. Tomorrow’s stop is in Valencia. Then we’re on to France. Surely you’d rather take off from somewhere with a direct flight to London?"

She stared at the beach for what felt like forever, and I held my breath, waiting. She swiped the booking app closed and set the phone down with a decisive click.

"One day," she said.

"But I'm not making any commitments beyond that."

"Fuck yes. Beach day it is."

The door opened and we both looked up to see Brian, balancing a plate full of pastries and three coffees.

"Brian! Change of plans. We're doing the Spain thing."

The next hour was a flurry of activity that felt almost domestic, if domestic involved designer luggage and enough sunscreen to protect a small army. Gemma disappeared into the walk-in closet, emerging with a selection of swimwear. She held up two options—a black one-piece that looked like something from a high-end magazine shoot, and a navy bikini with gold hardware that screamed money.

"You pick. Whatever you're comfortable in."

She raised an eyebrow but didn't comment, just disappeared back into the closet with the navy option.

Meanwhile, I was doing my best impression of organized packing, which mainly involved shoving random items into a canvas beach bag. Towels, water bottles, that paperback thriller I'd been meaning to read—everything went in without much thought.

"You're going to forget something important,"

came Brian's voice from the bathroom, muffled by the closed door. The only parts of our room that had any privacy were the small cubicle around the toilet and the walk-in closet that Gemma was currently occupying.

"Probably,"

I called back, stuffing a tube of sunscreen into the bag.

"But that's what makes it an adventure."

I heard him mutter something that sounded suspiciously lik.

"fucking chaos,"

but there was no real heat in it.

When the bathroom door opened, I was crouched over the beach bag, trying to figure out how to fit everything. Perhaps we didn’t need an extra towel. The sound of bare feet on marble made me look up, and every coherent thought I'd ever had evaporated like morning mist.

Holy fucking shit.

Brian Casey, uptight accountant extraordinaire, had the body of a goddamn fitness model. His chest was broad and defined, with a sexy smattering of hair trailing down to abs that looked like they'd been carved from marble. His shoulders were wider than I'd realized, tapering to a narrow waist that made my mouth go dry.

He was wearing board shorts in a conservative navy color, of course, and was holding a rash guard in one hand while checking items off a list on his phone with the other. He seemed oblivious to the fact that he’d stolen my ability to speak.

"UV index is going to be high today.”

Brian was in full Boy Scout geek mode, so focused on his lecture that he didn’t notice his effect on me.

"We'll need SPF 50 minimum, and I've got extra zinc for faces. The Spanish sun is no joke, especially with the reflection off the water."

I tried to respond, tried to make some joke about him being a walking sunscreen commercial, but the words stuck in my throat. Because holy hell, when had Brian gotten so... built? His abs flexed as he reached up to pull more bottles of sunscreen off a shelf.

"Enzo?"

Gemma's voice cut through my stupor.

"Are you all right?"

I snapped back to reality, realizing I'd been staring at Brian's torso like a teenager seeing tits for the first time. The beach towel I'd been folding was now a crumpled mess in my hands, and I fumbled to smooth it out while trying to look anywhere except at Brian's ridiculously perfect body.

"Fine,”

My voice came out rougher than intended.

"Just, uh, making sure we have enough towels."

Gemma's expression was unreadable, but I caught the way her gaze lingered on Brian before sliding back to me with something that might have been amusement. She was wearing a flowing cover-up now, all elegant lines and subtle sophistication, but I could see hints of the navy bikini beneath.

"You look..."

she paused, and I held my breath, waiting for her to comment on my obvious ogling. Instead, she looked directly at Brian.

"Surprisingly athletic for someone who spends his days behind a desk."

The compliment was delivered in that cool, professional tone she used for everything, but there was something underneath it that made Brian's ears turn red. He ducked his head, suddenly fascinated by the sunscreen bottle in his hand.

"I go to the gym,"

he said, like it was some kind of confession.

"Stress management."

"Clearly effective.”

Gemma’s eyes dropped to his chest before she looked away.

Meanwhile, I was still trying to process the fact that boring, buttoned-up Brian had been hiding a body that belonged in a fucking underwear ad. And trying to ignore the way my own body was responding to the discovery, the way heat was pooling in places it absolutely shouldn't be pooling.

This was Brian. Jake's brother. The guy who organized his sock drawer by color and had never missed a dentist appointment in his life. The guy who'd just spent ten minutes explaining the importance of broad-spectrum sun protection while I stared at his abs, drooling like a horny teenager.

"Anyway,"

Brian continued, apparently oblivious to the undercurrents swirling around him.

"I've got reef-safe sunscreen because coral bleaching is a serious environmental concern, and these UV-rated lip balms. And I think we should all wear rashguards. No sense in going shirtless with a UV index this high."

He held up a small pharmacy's worth of sun protection products, his chest muscles shifting as he distributed items with military precision. I tried to focus on his words—something about SPF ratings and skin cancer statistics—but my brain kept short-circuiting every time he moved.

Fuck. This was going to be a problem.

Brian wandered toward the suite's entrance, mumbling something about checking the beach bag one more time, his broad shoulders disappearing around the corner. The moment he was out of sight, Gemma moved closer, her green eyes sharp with the kind of focused intensity that probably made hotel staff nervous.

"Are you into Brian?"

she asked, her voice pitched low enough that it wouldn't carry.

"What?"

My voice cracked like a fucking teenager’s.

"That's... why would you even ask that?"

Gemma settled onto the edge of the massive bed, her posture elegant even in a casual swim coverup.

"Because you've been staring at him like he's a particularly complicated math problem you're dying to solve,"

she said, amusement coloring her voice.

"And you just watched him pack a beach bag like it was performance art."

Shit. Had I been that obvious? I snuck a glance toward where Brian had disappeared, making sure he couldn't overhear this conversation. The last thing I needed was him knowing I'd been checking out his abs like some kind of pervert.

"I wasn't staring,"

I protested, but even I could hear how weak it sounded.

"I was just... surprised. It’s been years since I’ve gone to the beach with him, and I didn’t expect him to be built like Captain America."

"Mm-hmm."

Gemma's expression was skeptical, like she was seeing right through my bullshit.

"So that's a no, then? You're not attracted to Brian?"

My hands were fidgeting with the towel now, twisting the fabric between my fingers. This was exactly the kind of conversation I'd spent years avoiding, the kind that led to uncomfortable truths and awkward silences. But there was something about Gemma's matter-of-fact tone that made deflection feel pointless.

"Brian?"

I forced out a laugh that sounded fake even to my own ears.

"Fuck no. I mean his name is Brian.”

Gemma tilted her head.

“What’s wrong with the name Brian?”

I couldn’t explain that. She should have known.

“Anyway, Brian as a person? Not my type. Brian's body... that’s a different story."

The admission hung in the air between us, and I immediately wanted to take it back. But Gemma just nodded like I'd confirmed something she'd already suspected.

"I think you like Brian as a person more than you’d like to admit.”

She fiddled with the fabric on her swim coverup.

“So. You’re bisexual.”

I'd known I was bisexual for years, had even used it in my own head, but hearing someone else say it out loud made it feel more real somehow. Because I’d never admitted it to anyone.

"Yeah,"

I said quietly, still not looking at her.

"But I don't... I mean, I've never really done anything with men. Not really."

"Why not?”

Usually, I would have joked here, maybe told her I was too hot for guys to handle, but somehow, the truth slipped out.

"There was this guy in high school. Marcus. I had this massive crush on him, thought maybe he was into me too. So I... um. It ended badly. Bullying.”

"That's awful,"

Gemma said, and there was genuine anger in her voice.

“Of course, you'd never have to worry about that with Brian,"

Gemma said gently.

"He's so... Brian-like. I don't think he has a bullying bone in his body."

I let out a shaky laugh. She was right. Brian was the kind of guy who helped old ladies cross the street and always said please and thank you to waiters. The kind of guy who'd never deliberately hurt someone.

"Yeah,"

I agreed, feeling some of the tension leave my shoulders.

"Brian's definitely not—"

I froze mid-sentence as Brian reappeared from around the corner, reaching for a shirt he'd left draped over a chair. The movement made every muscle in his back and shoulders flex, a gorgeous display of strength and definition that made my mouth go dry. He tugged the rash guard over his head, his abs contracting as he pulled the fabric down, and I felt my brain short-circuit all over again.

Beside me, Gemma had gone silent, and when I glanced at her, I realized she was staring too. Her lips were slightly parted, her professional composure cracking enough to reveal the woman underneath the executive facade.

We sat there like a couple of idiots, both of us transfixed by the sight of Brian Casey getting dressed. Brian didn’t notice, more focused on his checklist as he smoothed down his shirt and checked his watch.

"What?"

Brian asked, noticing our silence. His blue eyes flicked between us with mild confusion.

"Did I forget something?"

Gemma and I exchanged a look—a moment of perfect understanding that made my stomach flutter. Her expression was knowing, almost conspiratorial, and it made me realize there was more to Jake’s ice queen than met the eye.

"Nothing,"

Gemma said smoothly, standing and brushing imaginary lint from her coverup.

"Just making sure we have everything for the beach."